A handsome French waiter, in his late twenties, is standing on the sidewalk beside some small tables, set ready for lunch patrons. Sparkling glasses, silverware, white tablecloths. He’s wearing a long, white apron tied around his slender waist. His thick, black hair is combed straight back.

A very handsome man. Someone should take his photo – the iconic French waiter. I’m walking straight toward him. Oh my, he’s gorgeous.

We lock eyes. I look away quickly. Men that age never look at me – I’m usually free to gawk all I want. Maybe he thought I would eat here if he did that. Or maybe my hair is sticking up funny. I finger my scarf to see if the tag is showing. My eyes are down, watching the pavement go by under my black boots. I want to look at him again.

Just before I pass by, I take another furtive glance upward.

“Bonjour, madame,” he purrs, just at the moment when our bodies are close.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” I manage to say.

What just happened? I thought I could be invisible here in Paris, like I usually am in the United States. Was that a sexual thing? That can’t be a sexual thing! I’m old enough to be his…

But so much transpired in that small moment. He knew I was attracted to him, and it amused him. He kept his eyes on me to see my reaction. I enjoyed his sultry hello, perfectly timed. Those dark brown eyes. A tease. A flirt. A little bit of attention to reaffirm life. This is why I love Paris.